


fall from grace

by jillyfae



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: F/F, Family, Femslash, Ficlet Collection, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-20
Updated: 2017-11-07
Packaged: 2018-02-03 00:28:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1724492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jillyfae/pseuds/jillyfae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of short-fic for Ngaio Shepard, emphasizing (but not exclusively about) her relationship with Samantha Traynor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. breath

**Author's Note:**

> Not in anything resembling chronological order.

Her skin is too smooth,  _except where it’s not, too straight lines and ridges, like puzzle pieces taken apart and put together too many times by clumsy fingers,_  the color too even, the history of injuries and accidents and that summer she’d burned her back in the sun at her grandfather’s three separate times causing an uneven wave of discoloration that her last lover,  _before_ , had been prone to trace, fingertips and tongue, whenever they were half asleep and half not, warm and flush and together, tangled up in sheets and knocking pillows off the bed,  _her history,_ all of it gone.

Even her father’s eyes, turned strange and red in the mirror.

Her skin is smooth, and clean, and supple, despite the glint of red that hides until she tries not to look at it, flickering just at the very edge of her vision.

It doesn’t feel like  _hers._

But she doesn’t mind the stranger’s skin that keeps her together, when Sam’s warm breath and soft fingertips trail against it.


	2. just in case

Traynor practically dragged her into the cabin, shoving hard enough Shepard almost stumbled backwards down her own stairs. She did fall when her legs hit the bed, Samantha following her with a smooth shift of her long legs, hands pinning her to the bed. There was the distinctive push of teeth through the fabric of her shirt, and Ngaio cried out in surprise at the pressure on the flesh of her breast, right before a tongue pushed hard against her nipple, a thigh slid up to grind between her legs.

"Sam," she groaned softly, fingers flexing beneath Samantha's hands, back curved as she pushed up against her mouth. Samantha growled, a dark and startling vibration through Ngaio's chest, before shoving herself up the bed, her mouth slamming against Ngaio's lips, her tongue slipping past teeth to plunder Ngaio's mouth.

Sam's hands moved too, one braced on the bed beside them, the other replacing the thigh that had moved when her weight shifted, the heel of her hand pushing hard, rubbing the seam of Ngaio's trousers up against her, rougher than usual.

 _But good._

Still completely clothed, yet ravaged, hard and fast and brutal, the touch of her hands and legs and mouth and tongue, 'til Ngaio arched, one last ragged breath before she tensed, caught by surprise by the sudden shock as she came.

That seemed to be enough to soothe her, Sam's kisses gentling, hands sliding slowly now, peeling them both out of their clothes, Ngaio throwing their boots at the wall, four syncopated thuds.

They kissed for a very long time, the smooth caress of skin on skin, hands down sides and backs and breasts, legs rubbing together, then apart, then together again.

They did more than kiss, the firm press of thighs and lips and fingers and tongues, a slow build this time, shared warmth and shared care, soft cries of pleasure tangled together as tightly as their bodies.

Ngaio tugged Sam close, before either of them managed to fall asleep, a moment to admire the smooth line of dark limbs against her own, dark hair spilled across their pillows. "Not that I'm complaining, but what was that all about?"

Sam's shoulder's shrugged, a shift against Ngaio's skin. "You almost died today."

"I almost die a lot of days." Ngaio lifted one hand, a finger pressed against Sam's mouth as her lips started to part. "No pretty lies, it's part of the job. But I'm damn hard to kill. What was different about today?"

"Nothing." Another shift of skin and arms.

"Bullshit."

"No really." Sam turned in her arms, wriggled everywhere until she was comfortable again, a slight frown wrinkling her nose. "Just hit me hard today. All the things we've never gotten to do. Go see a show. Have ridiculously bad take-out at 3am when neither of us can sleep. Go shoe shopping for some decent boots."

"So you were crossing ' _pin Shepard to the bed and have my wicked way with her_ ' off your list, just in case?"

"Just in case," Sam whispered, fingers coming to rest against Ngaio's cheeks, dark eyes shadowed as she stared intently. "I wanted to be sure you know how very much I want you. Always."

It was Ngaio's turn to shrug, to drop her gaze, uneasy with the heat behind her eyes, the tension in her chest. "Knew that already."

"Good. Now go to sleep, you have a very busy day of threatening stupid politicians planned for tomorrow."


	3. Mamihlapinatapei

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The look between two people in which each loves the other but is too afraid to make the first move.

It was a much more stressful game of chess than Shepard had ever imagined.

And she’d seen a Grand-Master Championship match once, when the vid feed refused to pull up anything else and she hadn’t been able to sleep.

Chess wasn’t usually that entertaining to watch, truth be told.  Not that Shepard was all that entertained by staying on the sidelines for much of anything.

Not that Shepard was generally interested in playing a game she didn’t already know she was going to win.

But she kept being distracted by the shift of shoulders that gave Traynor away an instant before she made her move, the way the blue lights from the aquarium caught in her hair, the way she bit the tip of her thumb when she was thinking.

Shepard almost sacrificed her queen by accident, paying more attention to the way Traynor’s rolled up sleeves hugged her arms than the actual game.

It was ridiculous.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so distracted, so completely unable to focus.  Her entire career was built on her ability to put everything else aside …

But, just this once, maybe she didn’t have to?

Just this once, maybe the distraction was more important than the game?

Shepard tilted her head, watched Traynor make her move, and kept watching as she leaned back against the couch, the shift of shoulders and hips as she relaxed.

Traynor lifted her head, her lips just starting to part, as if she was going to ask Shepard what she was waiting for, but instead she met Shepard’s eyes, and everything was still, for just a heart-beat, and Shepard could see the flare of her nostrils, the slightest flutter of skin in the hollow of her throat, as if she’d had trouble catching her breath.

Ngaio smiled, and watched Samantha duck her head, and reached out to slide her rook forward.  It wasn’t the most brilliant move she’d ever made, but for once, winning the match didn’t matter at all.  There were more important things in life than just a game.


	4. legacy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tumblr prompt meme, _Call Me_ , requested by [packingupmydinosaurs](http://packingupmydinosaurs.tumblr.com)

The package arrived the day before her birthday.

Every year, no matter her posting, or her father’s posting, Tane Shepard somehow accurately navigated the impossible schedule that was the Alliance mail system, and got Ngaio her present the day before her birthday.

Every year.

Twenty identical brown shipping boxes, all broken down and recycled, year after year, leaving no evidence behind of their existence.  Except for the presents, of course.

There had probably been boxes before then, as well, as memories of her childhood were more recognizable by her father’s absence than his presence, but her mother had taken care of them before Ngaio saw them.

Practical things, usually. New sweaters, new datapads, a subscription to a particularly good book service.  After she enlisted, armor or weapon mods showed up, new omnitool software, or even, once, the latest amp out of  _solaris._

Ngaio dutifully put them in with the rest of her clothes and gear, using them precisely as intended.

There was usually a little trinket included as well, small toys giving way to silver earrings or smooth dark hair combs, rainbow socks or beaded necklaces.

They were all carefully stowed away in the same well worn wooden box, the carvings faded and blending together until it was impossible to tell what the original pictures had been.  It got put in the bottom of her trunk or the back of her closet, to be left alone until it was time to pull it out the next year, for the next addition to the collection.

And then she would sit down, and pen a proper thank you letter on old fashioned paper, and put it in an old fashioned envelope, and slip the whole thing in the small shipping pouches available at any Alliance post, and send it off into space to find it’s way back to her father.

Hannah sometimes called the week before her birthday.

Sometimes she didn’t manage it until close to a week after, during Ngaio’s third shift, interrupting the first proper sleep shift she’d had in a week.

And she would laugh, and apologize, and ask if she should try again later, and Ngaio would smile, and collapse in the chair in the comm booth, and tell her no, now was fine.

They’d talk for almost an hour, and only when it was almost time to go, the inevitable click of the chrono counting down in the corner, would Hannah ask if she’d gotten her present yet, and what it was, and if she’d spoken to her father lately.

Ngaio would tell her of the box, and shrug, and make excuses about the differences in shift times across the fleet, and Hannah would swallow her sigh, and smile, a small gesture almost hidden in the flicker of blue or orange or green holos, and wish her daughter a Happy Birthday.

Ngaio would thank her, and blow her a kiss, and promise to talk to him soon,  _truly_ , and wait until the holo was gone, the booth dim and quiet, before allowing a sigh of her own to escape.

On her father’s birthday, precisely 34 days after her own, she would fulfill her promise, hunt through every buoy connection until she got a decent signal, and call her father.

For just a moment, when the call connected, his eyes would meet hers,  _we have the same eyes,_  and for just an instant she remembered the feel of his hands when she’d tripped on an uneven plasteel walk when she was eight, and he’d helped her up and kissed it better, and the sound of his voice, singing to her whenever she was sick, an old folksong he’d learn from his grandmother, the words an incomprehensible mish-mash of common and maori and french and an asian polyglot she never had quite identified.

But she’d never cared about the words, just the voice, low and steady until she fell asleep.

He never used that voice anymore.  

Instead his every word was clear and cool and precise, and they would nod, and exchange pleasantries, until they both ran out of things to say, of stories to share, and she wished him a Happy Birthday.

And that was it, until the package arrived next year.

Precisely one day before her birthday.


	5. acetone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [for N7 day!](http://faejilly.tumblr.com/post/167230767367)

Every week her father would have his nails done. Sometimes her mother did them, and on rare occasions he’d go out to the salon and chat with the civilians as they did them for him. But usually he did them himself.

She liked when he did them. She’d curl up in the armchair and watch, his every move sharp and precise. First removing last weeks’ polish, the careful selection of new colors or patterns or stencils, his utter and complete concentration as he applied it, layer after perfect layer.

Even when she hadn’t seen him in person in years, even when they were no longer speaking beyond the formalities of birthdays and holidays, the familiar sharp tang of polish remover would make her smile, small and wistful.

* * *

Her mother taught her how to shoot. Taught her how to take care of her weapons, cleaning and repairing, ammunition always carefully stored separately, back when she was young and people still made bullets for recreation or hunting.

She rather thought that was part of the impetus for external heat sinks, twenty years later. It kept the ammo separate again, just in case. Not that any two people could agree on what they were protecting themselves  _from,_ on what precisely made them afraid _._

Her job wasn’t to make those sorts of decisions. Her job was just to shoot back when everyone else had failed at their jobs and the shit hit the fan.

Her mother’s favorite cleaner had a sharp scent almost like her father’s polish remover but deeper, and it lingered longer. 

More comforting when she smelled it again in the gun-locker aboard the  _Normandy._  

* * *

Traynor was half-way under the map display, her head and shoulders gone entirely from view, her ass sticking up and out of the access panel as she braced herself on her knees.

She was obviously rewiring something, as all the displays were off, but Shepard found she had trouble worrying about what had broken now, in favor of enjoying the view, so she perched on the edge of the stairs and waited.

Until something sparked, a sharp chemical smell rising up towards the ceiling, and Sam started swearing,  _bloody fucking_ something or other, and Shepard had dropped to her knees beside her and helped pull her out before she’d even realized she’d moved from her perch on the railing.

Sam was shaking her head a little, flapping her hand a bit more vigorously, as if it stung, and before she could start apologizing for the trouble, (Shepard recognized the lift of her shoulders, Sam could apologize for  _anything,_ ) Shepard took her gently by the hand, and kissed her fingertips, one after the other.

The soft sound that escaped from Sam, warm and pleased, was enough to prove she was fine, despite the smell lingering against her skin. It was almost like Shepard’s father’s polish, her mother’s cleaner, any myriad of solvents she’d seen in assorted armories over the years. 

Sam had singed something under there that was still factory clean; or had been, before the spark. The  _Normandy_  never had been run through a proper inaugural scrub, since it still wasn’t technically  _finished._

“Miss a circuit, did you?”

“There shouldn’t have been one?” Sam shrugged, carefully enough not to shift her hand out of Shepard’s grip. “I’ll have to run yet another diagnostic against the schematics before I try again.”

“Tomorrow?” Shepard tightened her grip, just a little, and almost smiled at the way Sam’s eyes darkened.

“Tomorrow should be fine. EDI?” Traynor looked up at the ceiling, a completely unnecessary affectation that  _everyone_  indulged in. “Re-route power through the secondary circuit will you? We’ll at least have emergency functions until I can figure it out.”

“Certainly, Specialist.” 

There was a slight hum, and the display flickered back on, though it was all the same vaguely unpleasant shade of orange instead of the usual more varied hues.

Traynor frowned, wrinkles gathering over the bridge of her nose, and Ngaio stood up, tugging on the hand she still held. “Tomorrow, remember?”

Traynor’s shoulders started to do the thing again, and Ngaio cleared her throat.

Sam grinned up at her, and stood gracefully, not even pulling on Ngaio’s hand to balance her weight. “Sorry.”

Ngaio rolled her eyes, and they headed towards the elevator, hand in hand.


End file.
